


Sharing is Caring

by lucdarling



Category: Marvel (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Multi, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-16
Updated: 2012-03-29
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:02:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucdarling/pseuds/lucdarling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brief glances in how an established ménage à trois handles daily life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Closet Space

Natasha pursed her lips and considered what this meant, if she followed through with this plan. Honestly, once the thought occurred to her, she knew it had been a long time coming. While Phil was downright meticulous about hanging his suits over the bathroom door and Natasha's closet was her own (it was her apartment, after all), Clint had no such compunction about being orderly. The man had just gotten used to lining his shoes up next to theirs by the door.

She had no problem with waking in the morning after a night of fantastic sex and seeing the scattered clothes on her floor. But when the clothes were in piles simply because Clint was too lazy to fold them on the chair and Phil had passed out from exhaustion before doing it himself, Natasha knew what the answer would be. She sighed and set to work.

Three hours later and the purchase of a small bureau with delivery set for tomorrow, Natasha was happy with the arrangement. Just in time, as her two lovers came in the door, bickering quietly about the latest SHIELD rumor. The woman grabbed her crutch and limped out to the living room.

“Sit down,” Phil instructed in a no-nonsense tone. “I doubt you stayed off your foot as you were supposed to.” Clint gave her a wide grin as he began dishing out the takeout onto actual plates. At least he didn't bother to chime in, probably because they all knew he was the worst at following medical advice.

“I had things to do,” Natasha muttered, taking a seat on the couch and propping her foot on the coffee table. She waited until most of the food was gone before announcing that she had a surprise for both of them.

“Oh yeah? You go online shopping again?” Clint leered playfully and Natasha snorted, picking up the crutch from where it leaned against the armrest of the couch. Phil helped lever her to a standing position, his hand warm on her lower back.

“Yes, but not like that. Shut up and follow me.” The two men did as they were told and let Natasha's slow pace lead them to her walk-in closet.

Phil was the first to catch on and the woman wasn't surprised. “Thank you,” he said, looking around at the half-empty rod where her dresses hung.

“Seems a bit rude that you can only hang one suit at a time. I know you like your options.” Natasha shrugged as best she could. “The bureau for your terrible band t-shirts arrives tomorrow, it'll go over there,” she informed Clint, gesturing with the tip of her crutch.

“Twisted Sister isn't terrible.” Clint replied automatically; it was an old not-quite-argument between them. “Wait, what? I don't have enough things for multiple drawers.” Clint seemed dumbfounded by this nonverbal display of affection. Granted, it was a very large step forward in their relationship.

“You're not taking all of them,” Phil murmured, wrapping a strong arm around Natasha's waist. His shoulder piece pressed against her ribs and she remembered what else she had done before they arrived.

“Also gave you room here. And I can make more closet space if I need but this is as much room as I can allocate for both of you, so don't complain.” Natasha shot a look to Clint and took a step forward to press down on the heel of the Manolo Blahnik on the shelf. The force applied to the stiletto set off the pressure sensor underneath the tip and the shelf of shoes swung back with a quiet click.

Clint was the first one to peer into the small personal armory. “You are a beautiful creature and I do not deserve you.” he told her in a heartfelt tone when he looked away, kissing her deeply. Natasha laughed into his mouth as Phil poked his head in to look at the pegboard and thin drawers. It had been more difficult than she'd expected to rearrange her guns and knives to make room for one of Clint's extra bow, clean out a shelf underneath her display of throwing knives for arrow shafts and to find space for two of Phil's extra Glocks, but the reward was more than worth it.


	2. Dinner

Working for S.H.I.E.L.D. often meant late nights, not only on stakeouts but on filling out the various forms about what the agent did or didn't see happen around the target. The trio was gathered in Phil's office, the older man at his desk and working diligently while Natasha was curled on the couch, clipboard in her lap. Clint stretched out on the floor, blue eyes focused on the mission report in front of him. He twirled a pen in the hand that wasn't writing.

A noise broke their concentration and Clint looked up at Phil. The agent gave a sheepish grin as his stomach growled for the second time, louder than before. Natasha set her pen down and dug for her phone that had fallen between the cushions. Clint stood from his prone position and stretched before walking over to Phil.

“Mediterranean or Mexican?” Natasha questioned, waving her phone at them as Clint's large hands settled on Phil's shoulders.

“Mexican,” Phil replied automatically in the same moment Clint spoke for the first option. The marksman paused in his massage of Phil's neck, leaning down to whisper something in his ear. Natasha stifled a laugh as Phil's eyes closed briefly and then he changed his vote.

Natasha placed the order and Phil shook off Clint's hands when the younger man went to stop him from picking up his pen again. “Stop bothering me,” Phil told him without any heat in the words. Clint nipped at the man's ear and then strolled away to flop down on the carpet in front of his papers.

Clint volunteered to run down to the building's lobby to meet the delivery boy and had disappeared through the door before Natasha had even finished saying that he was due in five minutes. He returned triumphant and grinning with two bags. The woman gathered her folders and clipboard, setting them on the floor next to the couch as Clint took out the tins and plastic containers. Phil's desk drawer opening was background noise to both Avengers but they thanked him when he set the disposable utensils in front of them as he took a seat next to Natasha.

The salad was first, three forks digging into the mass of lettuce and feta cheese almost simultaneously. Natasha unobtrusively stole the tomatoes from Clint's section; the marksman was more obvious about giving the olives he found to Phil, replete with a gagging noise when he accidentally ate one.

With the salad reduced to a lone ring of red onion, the three turned their attention to the other offerings. Phil pushed the shallow plastic container of stuffed grape leaves to the redhead, reaching in to take one for himself as Clint opened and closed lids in a search for his kebabs. He made a crow of delight that only meant he'd found the dessert Natasha ordered on the sly.

“Baklava later, real food now.” She admonished with a smirk.

“Yes dear,” Clint responded, setting the honey-laden treat at the end of the small table. He found his skewers in the next container he opened and lifted one, pulling the morsels off with his teeth instead of his fingers. Phil split half of his spanakopita for half of Natasha's moussaka and they ate, discussing the most recent betting pool that concerned the love life of Rogers and Stark.

Clint was the first to finish and he reached for the baklava. The phylo dough crunched under his fingers as he pulled off a bite-size square and popped it in his mouth. He made a show of licking the honey and ground nuts that clung to the side of his finger. Phil adjusted his position on the couch and Clint smirked.

“Something you want?” the younger man said, his voice a quiet rumble. He ate a second piece and Phil captured his hand before Clint could lick it clean. Natasha watched with dark eyes as Clint's thumb dragged over Phil's bottom lip slowly.

Phil pressed a gentle kiss to the pad of Clint's thumb before he released the man's wrist from his grip. “Just making sure you don't touch that paperwork with sticky fingers.” The look Clint gave in return was fondly amused.

“I would never do such a thing,” he protested and Natasha hid a smile behind a forkful of Phil’s spanakopita. “Okay, that happened once!” Clint reminded them. The woman rolled her eyes and leaned forward to intercept Clint’s hand holding the dessert as it moved towards his mouth.

He fed her the square instead and Natasha stared at him as she drew his fingers into her mouth. Clint’s eyes were a ring of blue with lust-blown pupils as she moved her tongue over his fingers and then pulled away. He groaned quietly.

"Finish your work in the next half hour," Coulson ordered hoarsely, sipping at his water without looking at either of them. Natasha smirked and picked up her fork again to finish her meal. Home sounded like a good idea.


	3. Bedspace

The first time they shared a bed, it was a trial and lot of errors. Phil absolutely refused to relinquish the top half of the pajamas, never mind that Clint had picked up the bottom half first. They didn’t quite argue over it, if only because Natasha was perched on the other side of the bed and had thumbed the safety on her Glock 26. There were hand gestures in the dim light and silent words exchanged though.

She was the first to lie down, choosing the side closest to the door without a word to either of them. Her weapon was tucked neatly under her pillow, one hand probably wrapped around it since neither man could see her left hand. They exchanged a look, Clint bare-chested and Phil in boxers and the long-sleeve top of the plaid pajamas. Phil blew out a quiet breath and slid between the sheets until he was in the middle of the bed. Clint flipped the covers over all of them and reached up to turn out the lamp on the bedside table.

Then it was a tangle of arms and legs, not entirely unlike their sex. They ended up with Phil on his back and Clint curled into him. Natasha stayed on her side, facing the door and a little apart from the men; that is, until Clint reached over their lover to put a large hand over the curve of her hip. She leaned into the familiar touch.

Now, it’s a bit more like routine, only varying due to injuries or the absence of one. (Fury has a tag on all their files that it’s either all three of them on a remote op or one alone. Sending two led to a higher medical bill than anticipated and a creative use for paper clips that was not to be repeated. The instigator was summarily dismissed and blacklisted; when told, the two who were absent only smirked like the behavior was expected.)

Phil is usually in the middle but sometimes he foregoes the long-sleeved top; Clint and Natasha know his scars inside and out by touch alone at this point. He’s less wary of revealing them in the half-light of their bedroom. Clint still sprawls out if given any room, once even on top of Phil until Clint’s bruised rib had protested. Natasha steals the covers, wrapping herself in a cocoon of blankets in the middle of winter; she’s no less deadly even buried under the warmth. (The 9mm hole through the down comforter attested to that and Fury made another note about spot-checking the capabilities of any SHIELD agents without proper warning.)

On a mission, it’s now standard that their hotel rooms come with a king-size bed due to a ‘clerical error’ in the booking that's always being overlooked. They are professionals to the last though Phil sometimes requires persuasion of some variety to put the laptop down and crawl into bed. When it is Natasha on assignment, the two men split a pair of pajamas and Clint does his utmost not to push Phil over into the empty space the woman should occupy. The rare times that Phil is sent out to assist with another SHIELD team, Clint and Natasha invariably wait on the couch for his return, knowing he’ll be back in less than a week if all goes as planned. Sometimes the duo even falls asleep, heads touching and the television on mute. Phil gently, carefully wakes them when he enters and they stumble into the bedroom to start an injury check that usually ends with much-needed reacquaintance. Clint doesn’t often get called out to work with full teams but he is on a semi-permanent loan to the wetworks division but when he does, Natasha and Phil pile the bed even higher with blankets when he's not around to protest; when it comes time to sleep (and she drags him out of the office with promises of Italian and too much red wine), Natasha curls into herself and Phil wraps around her from behind. He pretends to himself that Clint has only stepped out of the room until his brain allows him to drift off into sleep.

Three people and only one bed works just fine for everyone involved.


	4. Morning Routine

Phil was the first to awake. He slowly extricated himself from the vice-like grip of Clint's leg atop his own and then carefully moved over the curled up form of Natasha to the edge of the bed. She opened her eyes when his weight left the mattress and the man pressed a dry kiss to her cheek.

“Sleep in,” he whispered. Clint's arm latched onto Natasha's wrist. The woman huffed but her eyes were already clouding over with sleep as Phil pulled back. Phil smiled as Clint rolled into the warmth of Phil's space and wrapped himself around Natasha without once opening his eyes.

Phil crept into the kitchen, avoiding the creak of the hardwood floors with the ease of long practice. He pressed the button on the coffee maker and went to shower. He left the bathroom wearing track pants with the SHIELD logo on the upper thigh and a plain t-shirt, smiling at the sight of his two younger lovers wrapped around each other. Then Phil made a beeline for the coffee pot.

He was almost finished with his second cup of coffee when he heard the first stirrings from the bedroom. The sound of water rushing through the pipes came a moment later and Phil drained his mug before standing from the table. He took down a second mug from the cabinet and left it next to the half-full coffee pot. Phil slipped his feet into the sandals that were slightly too big for him and left the apartment, heading downstairs to the lobby of the building. He stepped outside and stood on the stone steps, looking around at the tree-lined sidewalk and the few other people outside at the early hour. It wouldn't be too cold outside today, his bones didn't ache in the way they did once the cold front moved in. Phil waved to the man who nearly tripped over his paper across the street and headed back inside. He grabbed their paper on his way to the elevator and removed it from the plastic sleeve as the box climbed to the seventh floor.

Phil returned to the kitchen and dropped into his usual seat with his back to the fridge. Natasha set his full coffee cup in front of him with one hand and picked up the newspaper with her free one.

“I hadn't read that yet,” the man protested mildly. She only looked at him over the rim of her own cup, taking a long sip before setting it down and removing the paper from where she'd tucked it under her arm. Phil sighed. “Fine, but I want the front page.”

Natasha handed it to him without a word and scanned the financial section. Phil swapped the readings when Natasha was pouring herself another cup. They didn't speak, reading in silence.

Clint emerged from the bedroom with sleep-tousled hair that stuck up every which way. He blinked in the bright light of the kitchen and headed straight for the remaining coffee. Phil and Natasha continued perusing the printed news in the as Clint inhaled his first cup of coffee. Phil slid him the sports page as the coffeemaker gurgled and hissed, forming the second pot.

“What are we doing today?” Clint asked, once his eyes were fully open and he'd learned the score of the Hawkeyes from the previous night's game. 

Phil sighed before speaking. “Paperwork,” Natasha and Clint chorused in unison. 

“Predictable,” Clint finished.

“Yes well,” Phil stood to get a fresh cup of coffee. “If you would speak to your teammates about excessive force, I would be grateful.” He walked into the small study and shut the door behind him.

Natasha exchanged a look with Clint. “Cleaning?” He nodded and she went to retrieve their service weapons and the others scattered about the apartment. Clint poured them both more coffee and sat back down at the table, spreading newspaper over the surface to protect the wood from gun oil and dirty rags.

This was their Saturday routine, the rare times when they were all home together and not called in to save the world or protect civilians from the latest threat.

On days where they all share a bed and work is the reason to get out of bed, the alarm blares at four. Phil's eyes snap open at the sound, Natasha heads into the bathroom for the first shower and Clint groans, reaching over to turn off the noise since he's closest. He gets up and goes to press the button on the coffeemaker, Phil exchanges places with Natasha and Clint is the last to shower as Natasha dries her hair. Coffee is poured into travel thermos or drunk standing in the kitchen, depending upon the time and urgency. Phil leaves for work first, taking the SHIELD-issued Acura and Natasha in the passenger seat. Clint might ride with them, but he prefers to take the bike if the weather allows.

They reach HQ and exchange a fond look between the three of them. Natasha straightens Phil's tie, Clint tugs on a red curl and she punches him in the arm. This takes place in the blind spot of the security cameras in the underground garage. The marksman pretends to wince from the impact, Phil suffers silently, pushing them with a hand low on their back towards the door and they walk into the lobby to start the day.


End file.
